


You're All I Need

by MissBayliss



Series: The Coda Series [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s11e17, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Sick Dean, Sick Dean Winchester, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 20:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissBayliss/pseuds/MissBayliss
Summary: Set after S11E17 Red Meat. Dealing with the issues post Dean's near fatal overdose. *Mentions of suicide.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean's vision is blurry. So blurry it's not safe to be driving. But Sam's sitting in the passenger seat, hissing every time they hit a pothole, a hand gently placed over his bullet wound, and Dean doesn't want to stop. He wants to get them home. Soon.

_What did you do? When you thought I was dead?_

Dean swallows, nausea and fatigue washing over him, crashing like a wave.

_I knew you weren't dead._

He lied. He lied to keep the peace. Because if Sam knew what really happened they wouldn't be riding along in comfortable familial silence right now.

The truth of the matter is though, is that Dean's not okay. Not at all. He'd crashed in that clinic. He'd died. Only for a moment. Only for a second. But he'd done enough. He'd taken a fatal overdose and even though the doc brought him back, there were bound to be ramifications.

Dean sees a fill up joint and acknowledges that his fuel gauge is sitting just below half a tank. It's good because if this gas station was any further down the road he'd have to pull over and throw up on the asphalt and Sam would be bound to notice that.

He pulls in and Sam just looks out the window. Dean breathes carefully through the nausea before forcing his body to move.

"You want anything?" Dean asks.

Sam looks at him, worry flashing across his face for a moment. Guess Dean looks as good as he feels. But the look of worry is quickly gone.

"Candy," Sam surprisingly says.

Dean raises an eyebrow, "Candy?"

Sam laughs, which makes him grip his side tighter, "Hey, I got shot. I think I deserve a little candy."

Dean returns the smile, "Coming up."

Dean opens his door with a creak and swings his legs around. Standing up he realises that he can't fill the car up yet. He'll have to hit the bathroom first, because his chest is burning as the stomach acid claws its way up his oesophagus. He doesn't have much time. He grips the hood and closes the door, trying to shift his weight so the car is taking some of it. The motion of closing the door sends a stab of white hot pain into his side and he remembers belatedly that his ribs are broken.

Bathroom. Bathroom first.

He manages to make it there even though his vision has doubled and it takes him a while to find the door handle with his hand. He's just in time before the retching starts and he's hunched over the tiny, filthy sink on the wall. His puke is foamy, bubbling. It crackles and hisses as it comes into contact with the sink and Dean's almost sick again wondering what it's doing inside him. What it's doing _to_ him. What it _did_ to him.

The scariest part is he'd do it again. He wouldn't even think twice. And he tells himself it's not suicide. He wanted to talk to Billie, to save Sam's life. But, that kind of is suicide. Because if she saved Sam's life for his, he'd be dead. And if she didn't, he'd be dead. And he'd be okay with that. Because what's the point of living without Sammy?

He throws up again, more, and it burns on the way up. His ribs are in agony from the desperate heaves.

When he's finished there's sweat covering his face and he looks white as a ghost.

He washes his face and the water is cold. It feels good. He feels like he’s done heaving but that’s not even the worst part at the moment. He’s so dizzy he almost loses his legs out from under him, but he knows he can’t take much longer or Sam will be suspicious.

He white knuckles his way through pumping gas, grabs a few packets of gummi bears and m&ms and pays up at the counter. He’s grateful to be able to sit back down when he gets in the car and hands Sam the bag.

“You okay?” Sam asks in a small voice.

Dean pulls a hand down his face and blinks out through the windscreen. He’s beyond hiding his exhaustion. He clears his throat.

“As much as I wanna keep going, Sam, I don’t know if I can drive through.”

Sam seems to be taken aback by the truth, but then he nods, “It’s okay. We’ll stop somewhere and rest up. Hit the road tomorrow.”

Dean nods, swallowing back the nausea. His stomach is still rolling.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean starts the car and pulls back out onto the road.

He points towards Sam’s lap, “You wanna find us a motel close by?”

Sam winces as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, “Sure.”

Dean squints, trying with all he has to keep the car between the lines. He’s losing sound periodically, white noise fading in and out. Luckily they pull into a little town a few minutes later and Sam’s diligent at providing clear directions, as if he knows Dean needs maximum support right now.

Dean’s a little worried that what he did back in that clinic will follow him. And that somehow, someway he’ll never quite be the same again. But for now, Sam’s sitting beside him, alive and breathing, and right now, that’s all he needs.

 

_End._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone said they wanted to know what happened next...

Dean pulls into the motel parking lot and kills the engine. He breathes a few deeps breaths, trying to ready himself to stand. He’s not feeling any better since their brief pit stop at the service station, in fact he’s feeling worse. And Sam, as bad a shape as he’s in right now, is bound to notice.

“I’ll get us a room,” Dean says, rough in this throat, but makes no move to get up yet.

“You okay?” Sam asks, and he sounds so weak that Dean has to close his eyes, try to force the image of him lying dead on the floor out of his head. _Nearly_ dead, he corrects himself.

“Just tired,” Dean offers him a small smirk and gets out of the car.

They’re not far enough out of the woods yet. In more ways than one. Dean doesn’t like how he can still see forest. But there’s no getting any further, not tonight, not with him behind he wheel.

He tries to pull a push door and almost ends up on his ass on the wet gravel. His movements are sloppy, and his stomach is still roiling. He briefly worries he’s about to decorate the register book, but he swallows thickly, steels himself enough to make some awkward chit chat with the clerk and steady his hand to write his name. _Fake name,_ he has to remind himself.

Sam is still sitting in the car when he wanders out. The sun flashes in his eyes and he blacks out for a second. When he comes back to himself Sam is struggling upright, sweat on his neck.

“Take it easy, man,” Dean mumbles as he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“I’m good,” Sam says, but his teeth are clenched.

“I’ll grab the bags,” Dean offers.

“What number is it, dude?” Sam asks, confused.

“Uh, here’s the key,” Dean hands him the key with the numbered tag on it.

To be honest he doesn’t remember what number the clerk had told him, and he can’t focus his eyes long enough to read it. So he hands it over to Sam and lets him lead the way.

Dean almost buckles under the weight of the bags, a stab in his chest reminding him _ribs._

Sam unlocks the door. Even though he’s the one that’s in the most pain right now, his hands are steadier than Dean’s. He holds out a hand, offering to take one of the bags, probably because Dean’s struggling so much, but Dean just growls.

“I got it. Sit your ass down.”

Sam rolls his eyes a little and makes his way gingerly over to the bed, breathing out slowly as he sits.

Dean dumps everything on the floor by the wall so it’s semi out of the way. He has to close his eyes to stop the world spinning, an action that does not go unnoticed by Sam.

“Dean, you alright?”

Dean feels his breath quickening as the rolling of his stomach increases tenfold.

“You gonna puke?” Sam asks gently, but he doesn’t sound like he’s moving. Probably because _he’s_ the one that injured right now.

Dean hears the word puke and it’s enough to send him over the edge. The delicate grip he’d had on keeping it together lost down the yellowed toilet of a two bit motel room. At least he had enough sense to close the door behind him.

It’s a while before he can stand to wash his face and rinse his mouth. He tries not to look at his own reflection, but he can’t help it. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, face pale, dripping with beads of water and sweat. If he had any hope of hiding this from Sam, that hope was shattered.

Sam was still sitting on the edge of the bed when Dean pushed the bathroom door open, a hand pressed over his stomach, looking like he’d been thinking about getting up to check that whole time.

“You okay?”

Dean nodded, feeling anything but okay.

“What’s going on with you?”

Dean sits on the edge of his bed, across from his brother and massages his brow with his fingers, “It’s been a rough few days, that’s all.”

“You sick?” Sam asks, quite redundantly.

“I think it’s just exhaustion, you know? I’ll be fine.”

Sam nods, swallowing carefully.

“How you doing?” Dean says, pointing towards Sam’s abdomen.

“Bit sore, bit tired. I’ll live,” he shrugs.

Dean closes his eyes again. In the blackness of his eyelids the world is still spinning.

“Dean.”

When Dean opens his eyes Sam is standing in front of him.

“What?”

“I said lie down before you fall down.”

“Oh.”

Sam’s hand pushes him back and he falls against the pillow, letting out a groan of pain, because _ribs._

Dean watches, blinking slowly as Sam rattles out some painkillers onto his palm. Sam’s hands are shaking and he looks pale, he tips a pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, before handing one to his brother.

“Here, medicate.”

Dean swallows it dry too, because he doesn’t want even water in his belly right now. He doesn’t know if it's a bad thing to take painkillers with the barbiturates still in his system but he can’t exactly say that to Sam, besides he’s in pain.

“Should be… looking after you,” Dean slurs, feeling his eyelids droop.

“You can look after me when you can stand up on your own.”

“Sammy…” Dean whines.

He worries that he’s going to be sick again, because the world is still spinning, there’s still two Sams in front of him, and his body feels thick, heavy, shaking, and sick.

“I gotcha,” Sam muttered, groaning his way across the room to grab a trashcan and set it by Dean’s bed.

“Sam,” Dean says, finding his brother’s eyes.

“Yeah, Dean?” Sam is already getting into his own bed.

“I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Sam actually laughs, “Me too, man. Get some sleep.”

Dean scratches his nose and lets his eyes close, “Wake me if ya…”

“I will.”

Dean hears Sam settle, huffing and puffing with pain, but once he stops Dean relaxes. Some sleep and he’ll be fine. They both will. All they need is a little sleep.

 

_End._


End file.
